Halfway Done, But Barely There
by forever-ioand-ever
Summary: Henry Morgan didn't always know he was immortal. In fact, he thought his life was half-over when truly it hadn't even begun. (A look into Henry's life in 1814. Enjoy!)
1. Chapter 1

_I'm kind of in love with Forever, okay?_

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><p><em><strong>July 1814. Carmarthen, Wales.<strong>_

"Mother! I _must_ have a new dress for the dance!" Sarah whined. The young brunette, arms crossed, sat down on the wooden chair. A small huff escaped her pink lips, and her mud-colored eyes squinted back at the woman scrubbing down the barely-dirtied dishes from their paltry meal.

"I would love to buy the fabric, sweets, but we just don't have the money." Her mother, Nora, replied without looking away from her task. She wiped down the final dish and stuck them in the small cupboard of the dark and derelict cottage the family called home. Sweating from the inescapable July heat, she wiped her forehead with the rag in her hand. "With your father out of work again..."

"Well then people just need to get sicker." Sarah declared, flipping a clump of loosely curly hair over her shoulder dismissively.

"Sarah Elizabeth Morgan!" her mother chided. "That is _not_ how we speak of others in this house! Or in any place, for that matter. Your father would be ashamed-"

"Of what? That I think he should care about his _own_ family for a change instead of the dying good-for-nothings?"

A commanding but concerned look came over Nora's face. She crossed her arms authoritatively, covering the large smear on her once-white apron. Cocking her head slightly to the left, she solemnly sighed.

"He does care, Sarah. He loves all of us- you, me, Henry, and James- more than anything in the world. And he loves people. He just wants the best for everyone."

"And that's the problem! We could still be rolling in money, living in London, blocks from the palace, if Father hadn't wanted the best for all those slaves and factory workers! But no, he had to go and take care of all the slaves and get us kicked out of London, laughed out of England, and stuck in some godforsaken unpronounceable Welsh seaport, with no money, no food, no nothing, and no dress for my debut!"

"If you detest Carmarthen so much, why do you care what you look like for the dance?"

The question came from a young boy, leaning up against the doorway connecting the kitchen and one of the two bedrooms in the house. A plaid newsboy cap was askew on his dirty blond hair, and streaks of grime were on his face and clothes. One strap of his brown overalls had come undone, and dangled behind him like a flattened tail.

"You wouldn't understand, James," Sarah huffed condescendingly, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist. The boy bowed his head shyly, as if ashamed he'd spoken up at all. He was a very quiet boy, didn't really have an interest in all the rowdy things boys do.

He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the small pebble he'd found earlier in the day. He was always bringing home little knickknacks like that. James was intrigued with adventure, with discovering, with the idea of going out in the world and doing something big. If only he were brave enough to do it.

Nora noticed her son's sullen, contemplative mood and, along with trying to change the subject from their inability to afford the dream dress Sarah desired, wanted to make him feel welcomed back into the conversation.

"And how were the docks today, Jamey?"

James' eyes lit up and a big smile spread across his face. "Amazing! A ship from America docked today and the men had all these furs and all those exotic foods like tomatoes and corn!

"And their stories, the stories were glorious! One sailor told me while he was in America, he had to fight off a whole band of savages all by himself! And guess what? He won!"

Nora chuckled, but shook her head. "You know that's probably just fancy."

"I know, Mother. But America seems so mysterious, so grand, so wonderful-I just want to go there myself and find something new."

James had by now made his way into the room, the conversation boosting some confidence in the shy lad. He was now wistfully looking to the ceiling, staring at a figurative dream of reaching a distant but real shoreline.

"Keep dreaming!" Sarah scoffed, rolling her eyes. Nora glared at the teen yet again in reprimand for her conduct. She then knelt down to eye-level with her son.

"Don't mind your sister. You're a brave boy and I trust you can make it to America some day. Just promise you'll come home to see your old mum and dad every now and again," She paused abruptly and looked about the room. "Speaking of your father, where is he?"

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot." James began. "Father's still at the dockyard. He's trying to buy fish for dinner."

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><p><em>I know you're probably wondering where the Forever is in this... Just wait and see, it's coming, I promise(: happy sixth episode tonight! update in a couple days...<em>


	2. Chapter 2

The setting sun shimmered on the sea, augmenting the brilliant cascade of fiery color filling the sky. Every so oven, the sunset was interrupted by the vertical shadows of ships and masts and sails along the horizon. The wooden vessels rocked gently with the tide. Waves crashed along the rocky cliffs from which the docks jutted like fingers, as if the land were reaching for the sea and all the ships within.

It would be a beautiful night, Henry surmised, were it not for all this bartering going on around me.

Indeed, a cacophony of voices filled the air as Henry walked down the pier. The people pushed forward in large throngs, desperately hoping to get something from the cargo of the unloading ships. That was Henry's goal, as well, he just didnt see the sense in their animalistic approach.

The kindhearted doctor wandered about the impromptu marketplace, looking to aid any crew member who had fallen ill on his journey. He knew the men wouldn't be able to pay much, if at all. But he couldn't let a man die if he was capable of saving him, even simply making those last moments of life a fraction more peaceful for the dying. Henry Morgan, you see, found himself most alive in the midst of death.

He weaved his way around crates of food and fish and fabrics, forcing himself to hold his breath each time he passed by a poorly preserved load. Which, for the most part, was all of them. The rancid scent in the air wasnt helping with his hunger, though he had to admit it would probably be worse if the foods smelled edible at all.

Fish. Henry commanded himself. You're here to buy a fish.

Taking in a large gulp of fresh air, he re-entered the melee and odor around him. He pushed his way through the people to a splintery wooden crate filled to the brim with various sea fish. The picscean corpses lay carelessly scattered, mouths still slightly open and lifeless eyes staring up from the gray mass.

"How much for a fish here?" Henry asked desperately. He pulled what little money he had from his pocket and prepared to pay. The robust sailor eyed the coins and let out a hardy laugh.

"More than that, peasant."

"Perhaps we can trade?" Henry suggested, his hands shaking in fear. Whether that was of the sailor or of not being able to feed his family is not certain. Likely it was a mixture of both.

The sailor sneered at him. "And what could a good-for-nothing like you have to offer?"

Nothing perturbed Henry more than generically labeling a person. As soon as he'd graduated with his MD, Henry knew he had to help those society had made nameless, faceless, barely human. His compassion for the enslaved-legally and corporately-had destroyed his reputation in his adopted home of London and in the land of England entirely. Only when he returned to his homeland of Wales was he respected, though healers still prevailed. And if the Welsh people would discover the reason he'd been legally removed from the country's capital, he would truly have nothing.

So naturally, being labeled himself would ignite that passion. And it did. A spark of indignant anger lit his brown eyes. He leaned his head down a bit, though the sailor was quite taller than himself. Henry raised his eyebrows almost in a questioning way, but much more as a glare. He looked up at the sailor and spoke, the anger overcoming his more reticent tendencies.

"I'll have you know that I may not look it, but I am a medical doctor, one of the only ones in Wales. Perhaps one of your crew needs medical attention only I can give."

The ferocity in his voice frightened Henry. Though it appeared to do its job, as the sailor now was nodding profusely and apologizing just as much.

"My apologies, Doctor. If you would be willing to forgive me and see our captain-"

Henry cut him off abruptly by taking the sailor's callused hand in a firm shake. A half-smile started working its way up his cheeks, but Henry also maintained a serious focus with his eyes.

"Take me to him."

The sailor, still holding Henry's hand from the handshake, began now pulling him forward, toward the gangplank of one of the largest vessels in the port. Henry was caught off guard, and stumbled forward until his feet regained purchase on the slick wooden boards. The sailor continued pulling him forward by his arm, which was now throbbing a little from being pulled so harshly. Henry urged his legs to walk faster in order to relieve the stretching of his shoulder. He at last caught up with the sailor's stride, and found himself on a stable but unsteady surface.

He looked around to see that he had now boarded the ship. All around him, the crew was bustling about, moving crates, lowering sails, swabbing the deck. The sailor who had led him there let go of his hand and motioned Henry to enter a small room at the stern of the ship. A diminutive round window in the door provided the only light to the small quarters.

Henry passed over the threshold and took in the small space. The room was no bigger than one in his family's small cottage, but felt much larger in that it housed only one occupant. The captain lied on the small cot made of stacked haybales. His generally robust face was now pale, gaunt, and shimmering with sweat.

"Thought it was scurvy, but he don't seem to be getting over it." the sailor said brusquely, then walked away, leaving Henry alone with a sickly stranger.

Henry reached up and massaged his shoulder, sore from being dragged on board the ship. He took a step forward to examine the sleeping captain. One of the salt-weakened boards protested beneath his foot, sending a crackly moan echoing about the cabin. The captain was startled awake. He opened his eyes to see a brunet-curled stranger standing over him, and jumped back in fright. Henry jumped back, equally as frightened by the captain's sudden awakening.

"Who are you?" the captain demanded, struggling to pull himself up to a seated position in order to show more authority. Henry's first reaction, for he was afraid for the man's well being, was to get him to settle back down and continue resting.

"Don't exert yourself, sir-"

"I said who are you?!" the captain interrupted, disregarding Henry's prescription.

Henry took another step back, subconsciously clasping his hands at his waist. "My name is Henry Morgan, I am a doctor here in Carmarthen. One of your sailors brought me to see to you."

"Carmarthen?" the captain asked, surprised and a bit perplexed. He seemed more worried about his location than the stranger in his room.

"Yes, sir. Carmarthen, Wales." Henry nodded. Immediately back to business, he continued in his examination. "How long have you had that fever, then?"

The captain grunted. "Day, two, three. I dunno."

Henry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing his attention on gently prodding the captain to open his mouth so he could examine the tongue and confirm his diagnosis. He saw the telltale spots immediately.

Standing up again, he faced the captain. "It's scurvy, but with some sort of fever… I'll be right back."

Henry abruptly left the captain's quarters, leaving his dumbfounded patient staring at the door. The doctor, on the other hand, was trying to rally some of the sailors to help him gather what he needed to treat the captain.

"I need a cold towel and some sort of citrus fruit!"

The sailors all stopped their work and looked at the ragtag doctor leaning out the doorway. The wind, which had picked up, but not to the point that it was very concerning, whipped past him and sent his coattails flying back. Along with those went a maroon scarf, an anniversary present from his wife. Without missing a beat, he reached up and reclaimed the scarf from the clutches of the wind. The sailors continued to stare. Henry continued to stare back.

He murmured some sort of insult under his breath and pushed himself forward. He quickly disembarked the ship and allowed himself to be again swallowed by the marketplace. Moving from stand to stand, from ship to ship, he scanned the wares for oranges. At last, he caught a glance of the fiery-colored spheres. With his only thoughts on saving the scurvied captain, Henry pushed through the throng until he reached the fruit salesman.

"How much for an orange there?" he gasped, his lungs taking first claim to the air he hadn't breathed in since reentering the marketplace before his vocal cords were allowed to make a sound. He laid a hand on the wooden countertop to steady himself, and his eyes were wide with desperation.

The salesman gave the deoxygenated doctor a dubious once-over. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin, subconsciously making himself larger and more intimidating. He didn't even look at Henry as he stated the price, only motioning with the hand that had crossed on the top; his left.

Henry pulled the coins from his pocket. They glimmered as if worth riches such as he hadn't seen, but truly it was all the money that he had. His stomach twisted in knots and he even visibly winced as he put the entire amount in the salesman's hand and cautiously removed an orange from the pile. He quickly ran off, back into the crowd, before the salesman had a chance to count the coins and see that he'd been shortchanged.

When he arrived back at the main dock, where the ill captain's ship was moored, Henry had no idea where to go. All the floating wooden vessels looked the same to him. His perspicacious eyes scanned the crowd for the face of the sailor who had taken him to the patient. Henry had a certain knack for remembering-facts, faces, places-and could recognize someone that he barely knew years after the last time he'd seen him.

His sixth sense failed to fail him, and he spotted the sailor within seconds. Having identified the ship, Henry reboarded the vessel, his partially stolen orange in hand.

He flung open the door to the captain's quarters, orange already extended out to the scurvied man, but froze when he saw the scene inside.

Another man stood over the captain's sleeping form. He showed little emotion, simply stood and watched the man sleep. Henry watched as his very defined tricep tensed and stretched as he clenched and unclenched his left fist. He rested his hand on the sheet, near the captain but not touching him.

Henry took a tentative step forward, and the mystery man turned at the sound of his footfall. His eyes were wide with fright, their vivid whites a stark contrast to his ebony skin.

"It's alright, sir. I'm a doctor." Henry said, his hands up in best a surrender as he could while still clutching the citrus fruit.

At the title of 'sir,' the man's fear turned to confusion. He was a slave, after all. He was used to hearing that word from his own lips, not being bestowed upon him by another person, let alone a white man and a doctor.

Henry gave him a reassuring smile, almost as if his seeing the two of them as equals were a secret meant just for them. Bewildered, the man simply nodded and stepped away from the bed, allowing Henry to access his patient.

The captain was sleeping, albeit restlessly. It was more of a delirious shutdown of his body than rest. Sweat glistened on his grayish-yellow skin as much as was possible in the dimly lit room. Across his brow laid a rag, cool and damp to the touch. Henry slowly turned again to the enslaved man.

"Did you put this here?" He inquired, a gentleness in his voice that the slave had never had directed towards himself by a white man.

The slave replied with a single nod of his head. His eyes then traveled to the orange still in Henry's left hand.

"Oh, this?" He bounced the orange up from his palm. "Citrus. Helps with the scurvy a bit."

The slave looked back at him, devoid of emotion. He had become the object society and circumstance told him he was. He was simply a machine to most people, and he hadn't the slightest how to react when he was at last treated like the human being that he clearly was.

Henry sat the orange on the bed, hopefully not to be soon crushed by its intended consumer rolling in his delirium. He stepped toward the slave, a kindness and compassion in his eyes that made the forgotten man want to trust him, but a status and skin tone than made him think otherwise.

"Henry Morgan." The doctor stated simply, his palms slowly opening at his sides.

The man inhaled deeply, gathering the courage he needed to defy all society had taught him.

"Clive."

His voice was deep and rumbling, yet crackled in a way that Henry could tell he did not speak often. Henry nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction, then picked up the fruit from the bed and placed it in Clive's callused hands. With all four of the men's hands on the orange, it was completely shrouded.

"I apologize for giving you orders, Clive, but please give this to the captain when he awakens and see to it that he eats the entire thing. His life depends on it."

"I'll see to it, sir," Clive nodded. Henry took his hands off the orange and Clive place the fruit in one of the oversized pockets of his overalls.

Henry turned toward the door, paused, and turned back as if he'd forgotten something.

"I'll be back in the morning. To check up on him."

The doctor opened the door, letting in a sliver more of light than did the porthole window. He stepped out into the cool, damp dusk, and almost had the door closed behind him when he heard Clive speak up.

"Master said you can take a few fish, so long as you keep coming back till he's well."

The man peered out from the crack of the wooden door, his eyes focused on the doctor. Henry gave a small wave and nodded his thanks. Not until Clive closed the door did Henry take the fish and begin his journey home.


	3. Chapter 3

"Salmon! Henry, how did you manage this?"

Nora looked up from the newsprint-wrapped fish to her husband, her eyes wide and mouth agape at the expensive meat in her hands.

"Just doing my job," he shrugged in reply, trying to be nonchalant, but he couldn't help beaming with pride because he'd been able to provide such a luxury to his family.

"Oh Henry, I can't believe…" his wife continued to exclaim. They hadn't had a decent meal in days, and now this? "Salmon! And so much of it!"

"That's not even the beginning," Henry smiled. Nora's eyes, if it were possible, managed to widen even more.

"There's _more_?!" Sarah asked with incredulous delight. She reached out and took one of the four salmon from her mother, for once her overly feminine tendencies forgotten as she stared at the very poorly scented fish.

"From the captain of a trade ship with scurvy. Him, not the ship. He's offered as much as we want as long as I treat his illness."

Seeing his childrens' slightly disgusted stares, Henry added, "Don't worry, you won't get scurvy from eating them. You see, scurvy is caused by a deficiency of vitamin C-"

"Of course," Sarah huffed. She threw the fish on the counter and glared at her father. Henry looked back at her with a solemn, hurt, disappointed expression crossing his face. He opened his mouth to ask her why, why she was behaving this way, why she was angry over this, but Sarah answered without even being asked.

"The doctor always has to save the day."

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><p>Henry carefully positioned the knife, placing his fingers in just the right places on the handle so as to have the most control of the instrument. He meticulously guided the blade down, down into the flesh and began slicing the incision into the body. He then removed it and wiped the excess guts and gore off the blade and into the grass beside him.<p>

"Now you try."

He handed the knife to his son James, who already had another fish on the chopping block. With shaky hands, the boy repeated his father's incision, but with a much rougher, ragged edge. He then turned his head to his father, hoping deep inside for the approval he was almost certain would come but nonetheless desired to hear.

Henry put his arm around James and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You're getting there, Jamey. Very good, for your first time. The trick is," Henry paused, picking up the knife again, "keeping your hand steady."

He then deftly and precisely sliced the final salmon open and removed its innards, throwing them down on the grass with the others'. Father and son then skinned the fish and placed the meat in a large skillet. Henry balanced the skillet on supports arcing over a small fire, then he and his youngest son sat and watched the fish as it cooked.

Henry looked down at his son, who was staring at the fire, though Henry could see in James' eyes that his mind was wandering. But he didn't dwell on that fact; he was too enchanted by the simple beauty of the child. The way the light danced across his features, how it lit up his big brown eyes. Curious eyes, they were. Curious eyes of a curious boy.

"Father?" he asked, not taking his gaze from the fire. "What's it like in America?"

"I haven't been there to know, Jamey. But I'd be willing to bet that when you first get there, it looks a lot like England. Big cities, big factories. Then you'd go inland and there'd be little towns, places like Carmarthen. And once you're deep in the forest, there you'll find the animals and the plants and the views, everything the papers say about the beauty of America. It's not right there at the dock in New York, you have to go find it for yourself.

"See, beauty isn't the same thing to everyone. We all have our own idea of it."

"Like Sarah and her dress?"

"Exactly. She sees that material, the look, the standing that comes with it, as beauty. And not to say that's wrong, but there's beauty in more than material. It's in all the places we go, the people around us…"

James suddenly leapt up from the log the two were sitting on. "Father, the salmon!"

At his son's cry, Henry also leapt up and pulled the skillet from the fire. Inside were the three filleted bodies, slightly blackened from the fire, but not as overcooked as James had frightened him that they might be. He motioned for James to get a plate to put them on, and the tow-headed boy scurried into the cottage, emerging a few seconds later with a large white saucer, chipped around the edges. James held the plate under the skillet, and Henry tilted it to let the fish slide off and onto the plate. Father and son then returned to the house, leaving the fire to slowly fizzle out in the waning moonlight.

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><p>"Mother, Father, I have something I would like to propose to you."<p>

The elder son, who had returned to the house while his father and younger brother were out cooking the fish, rose from the table and slid in the rickety wooden chair upon which he had been sitting. He straightened imaginary lapels, which only served to shake some dust from his jacket. He stood proudly, his chin held high. Henry took a moment to realize just how adult and mature his sixteen-year-old namesake son presented himself.

"Go ahead, Hens- er, Henry." his father nodded. He was trying to get out of the habit of calling the young man by his childhood nickname, Henson, but he couldn't get over the fact that his little boy was growing up. The nickname had come about from confusion over "Henry" versus "Henry's son Henry," and the other young boys had taken to shortening the difference to Henson. It had stuck, even when the family had moved out of London and into Wales, where father and son would likely be differentiated as Dr. Morgan and Henry. _**(For clarity's sake, he will always be referred to as Henson in this story. Sorry it sounds like Hansen, but he probably won't be around. 1814 guys, remember?)**_

"All right. I have found a career opportunity to help provide for the family, and am very inclined to take the job. I'm joining the Royal Army."

Henson looked down from his regal pose to see his family staring back up at him dumbfounded.

"The... The Army? But Henson, you'll... " Nora whispered, afraid that her son was about to go and get himself destroyed in the way a mother most feared-death.

"Mother, I've thought this through. There's no greater honor than to die for king and country. And family."

"You're not joining."

Henry let the simple statement hang in the air of the cottage, mixing with the steam and tantalizing scent of the half-eaten salmon on the five plates. It had almost absorbed itself into the entirety of the space when Henson reasserted his independence.

"Yes, I am, Father! We need the money and-"

"You're too _young_, Henson! I'm not letting you sell yourself to this country like a slave, off to some foreign land to fight a war that doesn't bloody matter for anything!"

"But it _does_ matter!" Henson growled, stepping toward his father. He seemed to falter in that step, and was much more subdued when he continued to speak. "It's not as if I have any other choice."

"You can find a much safer career, I assure-"

"You know where pays the most? Where maybe I could actually eke out a living in this entire bloody country? The factories! But _no_, I _can't_ work there, they're bloody deathtraps for God's sake!"

Henson's anger flared in his hazel eyes, their fury directed at his father. He'd already tried to get work in the factories, but Henry had forbidden it, knowing the dangers and medical consequences of the horrid conditions of corporate slavery. Henson wanted to prove that he was a capable adult and, acutely aware of their tenuous finances, wanted to help provide the money that his father wasn't able to make. But he couldn't do that without work, and though he was a bright lad, he excelled in hands-on work, not in the skills needed for success in the much safer corporate world of doctors and lawyers and businessmen.

"Don't you understand, Father? For me, it's either the Army or the factories."

Henry grew solemn. His son was not going to be swayed, not tonight. "I can't let you put yourself in that sort of danger."

"What does it matter? We all die anyway, might as well accomplish a thing or two on the way there."

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><p><em>See, I told you Henry would be here!(: how about NY Kids last night? I'm horrible at ayenns so that's why this seems all rambly and stuff. Review me maybe?<em>

_I'll try to update more often but art takes time so... I promise there will definitely be more before the next episode. Two weeks to wait for it. Ugh._

_~Macy_

_updated ayenn... sorry i haven't been writing here! I'm totally hooked to my other story, Protector, right now so go read that(: I've also gone through and changed Felicity's name to Nora to keep canon... Still working on chapter four between all the craziness on Protector tho(:_


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